Mystic Memories by Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz Page A

Masters, that is. Aw, hell, who was she kidding? Considering the way things had nearly gotten out of hand a few minutes earlier, she may as well be on a first-name basis with the man.
    “Okay, Bud, I’ll feed you.” With the blanket wrapped around her, she plopped down at her seat and offered him a small bit of beef from her plate. Despite the dog’s eagerness, he gingerly took the tidbit from her fingers. “Somebody taught you some manners.”
    The dog gazed up at her expectantly. She scratched him behind his ear with one hand as she offered more food with the other. He had a calming effect on her.
    Unlike his master.
    The way things were going, she wondered if she would be able to hold off her own lust for the two days it would take to get to San Diego. As it was, she had hardly made it past dinner.
    Her gaze flitted to Blake’s stained jacket lying at the head of the disheveled bed. What had happened there played out fresh in her mind. What had almost happened sent a shudder through her tired body. It wasn’t fear or horror she felt, but a deep sadness for the captain who had very nearly raped her when she had been so willing to give him the tenderness and compassion he really wanted, really needed.
    Was this how he treated every woman he bedded? No, she couldn’t believe it. This Jekyll-and-Hyde behavior was not the real Blake Masters. From the shock and confusion on his face, she knew he had been as surprised as she. Her questions about the past, her insistence on conjuring up a memory had triggered the darkness in him.
    Now that she had pushed him to open that door, would he begin to remember more? Would he have another lapse into violence, more overpowering than this time?
    Exhausted tears stung the back of her eyes. She felt completely overwhelmed by her situation—caught in a world that wasn’t her own, uncertain if she would find Andrew, not knowing if she could get home. And now, of all times, her dormant hormones were sounding a bugle call.
    The dog nudged her hand with his nose. Looking down at Bud, she sighed heavily. “If you’re here to protect me from the crew, who’s to protect me from the captain?”
    Or the captain from me?

    Several minutes passed before two knocks at the door of the captain’s cabin drew Cara’s attention away from the dog. Bud got up and trotted to the door, then looked back at her.
    “He said three,” she reminded the Labrador as the third rap echoed through the small room. “See?”
    Bud seemed to understand perfectly, turning back to stare intently at the door while she went over to unlock it. With the blanket wrapped around her, she needed to be extra careful to keep out of sight of any of the crew who might be able to see into the cabin. Staying behind the door, she opened it wide for Blake to enter.
    “That was quick, Captain—Keoni?”
    The cook chuckled. “Captain Keoni, hmmm? Sounds good. Maybe I give up da cookin’, eh? Put on da blue jacket and maybe I get a ship of my own.”
    Her head popped around the edge of the door to look behind the cook. “Where’s Captain Masters?”
    “Not here.”
    “I realize that,” she said, slightly exasperated with his all-too-obvious remark. He held up the shirt. She eyed it dubiously from the relative safety of the backside of the door. “Why didn’t he return it himself?”
    “Maybe not good idea. Think so?”
    His Pidgin English irritated her, especially since she had heard him speak so eloquently earlier. She reached out and took the shirt from him. “Tell your haole -captain that this wahine thanks him for the hospitality.”
    Her quip elicited a huge belly laugh from the Kanaka . “ Haole? Wahine? Good, Mrs. Edwards. Very good.”
    “I’m glad you approve. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” She began to close the door, but he stopped her. “Is there something else? A message from the captain, perhaps?”
    Despite his warm smile, Keoni seemed to lose a bit of the humor in his dark eyes. “Captain